Alex Grecian - The Yard

He tipped his hat and hurried after Dr Kingsley, Inspector Day, and the little lost boy, Fenn.

Hammersmith knocked on the door and stepped back. He put his hand over the wound in his arm, covering as much of the bloodstain as he could manage.

He looked down at Fenn, standing next to him on the stoop. The boy had been cleaned up some, but he looked almost as bedraggled as Hammersmith did. The shirt Fenn was wearing, one of Kingsley’s, was much too large for him, he had no shoes, and his hair was matted to his head. He raised his eyes from the door and smiled at Hammersmith.

“Thank you,” Fenn said.

Hammersmith smiled back and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He remembered his father’s hand on his own shoulder, so many years ago. Was this how his father had felt, some mixture of melancholy and gladness and nearly overwhelming pride?

After a long moment, the door opened. A woman stood there, all in black. She had been crying. Her face was red and her hair was mussed, and she didn’t seem to care.

Hammersmith stepped to one side and Day pushed Fenn forward so that the woman could see him. The boy didn’t wait for a reaction from his mother. He ran to her and launched himself into her arms.

The woman’s eyes closed and her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She went to her knees, the boy clutched tight to her, fresh tears streaked down her face.

“Mattie?” A man’s voice echoed down the hall behind her. She didn’t react to it, just rocked back and forth, holding her son. “Mattie?”

A short man with his shirttail untucked from his trousers came up the hall behind her. When he saw Fenn, he ran forward and embraced both his wife and his boy at once.

Hammersmith stepped off the porch and looked at Day, who shrugged and smiled. Nobody in the tiny family took any notice of the two policemen and the doctor at their door. They were locked in a silent reunion and no outsiders were necessary.

It didn’t matter to Hammersmith in the least. He knew that he had failed the unidentified chimney climber, the boy nobody had cared for, but he thought perhaps he had made up for it in some small way by bringing Fenn home.

“Good-bye, Fenn,” he said. “Always be brave.” He said it quietly and nobody heard him.

He was startled by yet another boy, whom he recognized as one of Kett’s runners. The boy hurtled at them on a rickety bicycle and jumped off just as he reached the curb, bringing the bicycle to a shuddering halt.

“One of you Inspector Day?” the boy said.

“I am,” Day said.

“Sergeant Kett said to find you. Been by way of two other places, sir.”

“What is it, son?”

“He said to tell you,” the boy said, “your wife’s taken sick, sir. You’re needed home at once.”

“Thank you.”

Day scowled at the trees, but said nothing. He seemed to have forgotten where he was. Kingsley gave the boy a penny and touched Day on the arm.

“I’ll take you,” he said.

“Hammersmith,” Day said. “Let’s get him to hospital first. That arm needs tending.”

“No,” Hammersmith said. “We’ll get you home. My arm will wait.”

“Where do you live?” Kingsley said.

“Kentish Town,” Day said.

“St Thomas’ is on the way. It’s not the hospital I’d choose, but it’ll do if Mr Hammersmith will permit.”

Hammersmith snorted. The sudden air through his broken nose brought tears to his eyes and he put his head down. St Thomas’ Hospital. He chuckled to himself, and when he raised his head, he saw that the others had stopped walking and were staring at him.

“St Thomas’ would be fine,” Hammersmith said. “Anything that gets Walter to his wife as quickly as possible.”

Day smiled at him and Hammersmith smiled back. He had balanced the universe by saving one boy when he couldn’t find justice for another. Apparently the universe wanted to repay the favor.

He straightened his shoulders and hurried to the carriage.

Hammersmith sat at the edge of the bed and carefully pulled the fresh white sling off over his head. He reached for the shirt that was draped at the foot of the bed and inched it on over his damaged arm.

“That’s a bad cut there,” the patient in the next bed said.

“Not too bad. It’s the broken knuckles that bother me most.”

“Got the same damn thing myself,” the patient said. “Other arm, though. And me knuckles are good.” He held up his arm to show Hammersmith the bandage. “Some mad bugger did me with scissors. You believe it?”

Hammersmith clucked his tongue and pulled the other sleeve over his good arm. He concentrated on buttoning the shirt with his good hand. The shirt fit well. He’d found it at the tailor’s shop and didn’t think anyone would complain that he’d taken it.

“Lucky for me there was a doctor at the workhouse today. Just visitin’, he was, pure coincidence. Except not a coincidence at all, was it?”

“Wasn’t it?”

“He was there with the police, chasin’ after the madman what stabbed me. Anyhow, it was a lucky break. He fixed me up and sent me on here.” The patient propped himself up on one elbow so he could lean in toward Hammersmith. “Glad it happened. Know why? Food’s better here!”

The patient broke into loud peals of laughter. Hammersmith nodded and put his sling back on, adjusting it across his chest. He stood and surveyed the area for anything he might be forgetting.

“Here now,” the patient said. “Yer not s’posed to leave till the nurse comes an’ says it’s all right.”

“I’m sure she’ll be glad for the empty bed. Anyway, I’ve things to do. Can’t lie about all day.”

“Me, I’m happy to have a reason to lay about.”

“Then enjoy yourself. Glad to have met you.”

Hammersmith walked out of the ward and nobody stopped him. He got his bearings and turned to his left, walked down a long hall until he found a staircase. At the top of the stairs, he asked a harried-looking nurse for the men’s critical ward and followed in the direction she pointed until he came to a large room at the end of the hall. Twenty beds lined the walls, and in each of them lay a dying man.

He took a deep breath and entered the ward. He found his father in the sixth bed from the end, asleep, an old man with thin white hair and bony shoulders. He no longer resembled the strong coal miner who had ruffled his son’s hair as they’d walked home in the starlight so many years ago.

Hammersmith pulled up a stool and sat. After a while, the old man’s eyes opened and he looked up at Hammersmith. There was a long silence, and when his father finally spoke, Hammersmith had to bend over him so that he could hear.

“Look how you’re growing, son,” his father said. “You won’t be the smallest boy in the village much longer.”

He smiled and Hammersmith smiled back. He reached out his hand and smoothed his father’s hair back from his forehead. After a moment, the old man’s eyes closed again.

Hammersmith waited until he was sure his father was asleep and then he rose and left the hospital.

He was surprised to find Penelope Shaw waiting for him when he arrived at number four, Whitehall Place.

“I heard that you rescued a child,” she said.

“It was luck.”

“You’re too modest.”

“No, only honest.”

“Your arm?”

“It will heal.”

“Your nose is healing already.”

“Yes. I noticed it’s a different shade of purple today.”

“I came to apologize to you again.”

“There’s no need.”

“I want to anyway.”

“Very well, then. You’ve apologized. Now it’s done and behind us.”

“And I want to say good-bye to you.”